Welcome to the WIA
by StillThunder86
Summary: Goal: Submit, educate, and intergrate subject into W.I.A. program. File Number: 137. Subject's crimes: vandalism, arson, assault, trespassing, suspect of murder. Subject Age: 26. Subject Name: Scott H. McCall.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Teen Wolf and all its characters do not belong to me. I'm just borrowing them for a bit. And the town of High Peaks is completely fictional.

A/N: Well, hello! I'm back with another venture into the Teen Wolf world. This one is an AU, taking place about a decade after the end of Season 2.

We do have a few OC's in this fic...but they are only to keep the story rolling. No relationships, No Mary-Sue takeovers...

Chapter 1

"If they find out what you are, they find out about me, about all us. And then, it's not just the hunters after us. It's everyone." ~ Derek Hale

"You'll have to wait in here."

Emily stepped past the secretary and entered the cramped office of the High Peaks sheriff. Offering a thank-you to the little woman with her round face and fly away hair, she got a bleak smile in return. One that did not even attempt to reach the other woman's eyes.

The door clicked shut.

A stuffed trout stared at her from its perch on top of the filing cabinet.

The chair set before the sheriff's simple pine desk was rickety with a wide slash exposing the cushion's stuffing. Emily twisted her lips with distaste before placing herself on the very edge of the ancient seat. She set her oversized briefcase beside her knee, folded her hands, and turned her sights on the hazy gray street outside.

She had seen the pillar of smoke rising above the mountains of Idaho's Fourth of July Pass long before the highway signs had shown the exit leading to the small town. While she had been easing her company Buick along what once had been Main Street, she had imagined it must have been quaint and welcoming.

It now lay in smoldering ruins.

The people who had wandered back and forth before blasted storefront faces shared the same vacant and mystified expression as police department's receptionist. The face of tragedy, Emily had seen it before. It always followed a collision between packs.

But she had never seen an entire street destroyed. Smashed walls, gouged cement, and broken windows, sure. But it was always in back alleys, abandoned parking lots, or warehouses. This type of damage didn't usually happen center stage for all to see.

The fire troubled her. In the eight years she'd followed the actions of America's registered packs, she had never seen a werewolf with a penchant for arson. Let alone an entire pack that would turn a blind eye to setting six businesses ablaze.

And why here? Surely, there better towns to settle in. The more feral packs couldn't even hunt the forests anymore thanks to the Sanctification of National Species Act passed four years ago. There was no reason for unregistered wolves to be this far north.

She glanced up as the door opened and rose when a tall, bear of man ambled in.

"Sheriff Warren," she said, extending her credentials towards him. "Special Agent Emily Hansen. I'm here to aid with your suspect."

The hand which took her badge had been smeared black by ash and soot. It coated him, covering his clothing and clinging to the faint stubble which lined his jaw. His jacket was spotted and stained by the spray of fire hoses, suggesting that he had been on the front lines in the effort to save his town.

"Retrieval Agent," he read as the soles of his heavy boots clunked past the staring trout. He pushed his own chair from the desk and eased into it slow and with a groan. He glanced up, revealing the pale flesh that had been shielded by the crow's feet gathered around his eyes. "Retrieval? I thought you were here to identify this thing for us."

He slid the badge back over the desk and Emily reached for it. "Identification is only one part of my job, Sheriff. As part of the Werewolf Protection Act, any incident involving one of these individuals must be overseen by an impartial government official following the safe extraction of the werewolf in question. Once we're gone, there will be a thorough investigation. I assure you, you're town will see justice - "

"Justice," he said, softly. Leaning forward, he hooked his hands before his stomach and tipped his head. "I have four dead citizens out there, Miss Hansen, and a community demanding to know why. If you think you are taking that thing out of here - "

"It's protocol when a werewolf is involved, Sheriff," Emily spread her hands, helplessly. "These measures are in place only as a precaution. Given the general opinion on these individuals, you can understand - "

"That Washington wouldn't want to risk a bunch of hillbillies executing a little vigilante justice?" Warren finished, coldly.

Emily stuttered to a stop, blinking at him in surprise. "No. No, of course not, that's not what -"

"Well, that's what got you people started, wasn't it?" He sat back, swiping a finger across his upper lip. "The wolf hunts back in 2014? What did the papers call it? A _'modern day Crucible_?'"

His pale eyes held hers for a long moment. Emily cleared her throat. "Yes. Once the wolves were exposed, people across the country were accused of being werewolves in disguise, refusing to register. Hitchhikers and the homeless were persecuted, mercilessly. In part, the W.I.A. was created to intervene on cases of mistaken identity." She sat a little straighter, straightening out the jacket of her pressed suit. "We also ensure that law enforcement makes every effort to guarantee that justice is shown to all. Human and werewolf alike."

"Oh, by all means," the man said, sardonically. "Wouldn't want these creatures to feel slighted by their potential victims, would we?"

Ice snuck into Emily's smile. "Certainly not. The government recognizes werewolves as civilians, Mr. Warren. And, for the most part, they are law-abiding and upstanding citizens."

A gentle scoff shook through his shoulders. "So long as they _register_, you mean." His eyes crossed to the corner of his desk, where a series of coffee rings had permanently warped the wood. He frowned. "Problem is, it's the ones who aren't so eager to put their names on your roster who do things like this, isn't it?" He jerked a thumb towards the window.

Emily swallowed and set the heel of her shoe against her briefcase. "We pride ourselves in our rehabilitation programs, sir. The exceptions to the rule are incarcerated, processed, and reintroduced to the masses as reformed assets to society."

He made a face, rocking his chair from side to side. "Sounds like you've had a long time to memorize that manual your people love to send us every year. Lots and lots of that legal crap that nobody really listens to." He ignored her unamused huff in order to study his cuticles. "You folks ever consider the possibility that there are cheaper ways of dealing with these things. Say, bullets, maybe?"

Emily blinked in surprise before she felt her jaw slide forward in annoyance. "There are those who suggest the same solution to _human_ felons as well."

"Well, at least those people couldn't be accuse of being..._speciest_, right?"

Emily shifted closer to the edge of her seat. "Are you insinuating personal beliefs, Sheriff? Because I have to admit that the thought of having a member of law enforcement holding such an opinion is quite troubling."

"Oh no, heaven forbid." Amusement filtered through the ash and sweat. "I was only relaying a message from the taxpayers. In case you feel the need to lodge the complaint with your superiors."

"If the taxpayers are dissatisfied with the way the W.I.A. operates, they should contact their state representatives. Now, am I going to have the chance to overview our suspect's information before I interview him, or do I have to gather his history myself?"

Warren's eyes lingered on her for just a moment before turning to dig through the mounds of paperwork that had spilled along the edge of his desk. "He was unconscious when the boys found him. Lying in that kids' park on the east end of town, all busted up and left to die by the look of it. He's young, twenty-six I think it said...damn, where the hell is that file?" He threw his hands up and perused the top of the desk with a frown.

Emily frowned, her head tipping, curiously. "He was alone?"

"Yep." He pulled open one of his drawers and peered inside. "Ah, did I leave it...yeah-yeah, I did." He pushed himself up, rolling his hand for her to follow him. "C'mon, I'll let you get a look at him while I get his papers."

She grabbed her briefcase as he opened the door and fell into step behind him, entering the short hall.

"Turns out he did have a record...he was involved in solving a couple of murder cases back in California. Guess they know now why he was such a Hardy Boy, huh?" He gave a mirthless laugh and Emily added her own non-committed hum of acknowledgement.

They emerged into the front office, where the secretary's desk created a barrier between the foyer and the deputy's desks. Their owners were still out, helping with the cleanup effort, Emily supposed.

The secretary herself was manning her station just as she had been when the agent arrived. At the moment, she was on the phone with what sounded like a towing company. The phone book lay open on her desk and waiting on the other side of the high counter was a man. His leather coat was wrinkled about his shoulders as he leaned against the laminate and a quiet, apologetic smile had brushed across his lips as he watched her speaking.

He glanced up when Emily and the sheriff went breezing past. His gaze touched the agent's and she felt her steps falter. The blue eyes seemed calm and compassionate but underneath it, she swore she could feel herself being analyzed by a cold and indifferent mind. Then, his face split into a warmer grin and he gave her a nod before returning his attention to the little woman before him.

They reached the opposite side of room and Warren held the door for her. Although she cast a final peek back towards the stranger, he did not return the look. The sheriff's voice filtered back through her thoughts as the door swung shut behind them and he took the lead again.

"Uh," Emily shook her head to clear it of those strange, searching eyes and fell back in line. "You believe the wolves set fire to Main Street."

"Well, they _were_ the ones brawling in the center of it. None of my people dared to get near them after they found the Jansen's boys and their girlfriends down on First. They were leaving the bar when they got jumped. Ugly, ugly, stuff..."

"Yes, but the fire doesn't make sense," Emily said, ignoring his annoyed glance back. "I've studied werewolves, Sheriff. Interacted with them. I've never seen arson used in pack disputes."

"So?"

She let out a sigh. "Discrepancies in behavior are always cause for concern. It's worth looking deeper into the incident, there might be more going on here than meets the eye."

"Hey," Warren shrugged, "You're the expert. Feel free to dig as deep as you want. Just so long as this thing gets what's coming to him."

Emily dropped her chin, taking in a few silent breaths to calm her frustration.

A pair of doors led off to their right. The sheriff bypassed the first, which was no more than a slab of slate gray metal simply labeled "Interview" and made for the more welcoming room that had been marked "Observation."

They entered the dark interior, where the only light was filtered in by the shaded window nestled in the wall connecting the two rooms. Warren walked towards a low table set across from the door. Hooking a thumb towards the glass, he said, "There's your wolf, Hansen."

Emily drifted towards the window and bent her knees just enough to set her heavy case to the floor. She drew a knuckle to her lips as she finally set eyes upon the subject of her investigation.

He was young, as Warren had said, in his mid-twenties. His head was lowered over the small table where they had seated him and a barrier of wild, unruly curls seemed to separate him from the reflective surface of the glass. Blood had crusted his upper lip and a dark crescent followed the curve of his left eye. Wide shoulders were spread, allowing his arms to be bound behind the chair.

A white paper bag sat on the corner of the table nearest the door.

Emily's brow lifted. "Sheriff, what is that?"

"I had Jonesy pick him up some breakfast," Warren replied, materializing at her side. He snapped a thin manila folder towards her. "Just in case it turned out he really was just passing through town and got caught in the crossfire like the rest of us."

Emily pressed her lips together. "Seems he hasn't quite managed to get to it."

"Nope," he said, mildly, as Emily took the file. He folded his arms and rocked back on his heels, looking into the other room to avoid the scowl he was receiving. "So, is he a werewolf or what?"

"It's hard to say after a glance," she said delicately. She turned the file right side up and turned it towards the light. "What has he said in your initial interviews?"

"Got me. Hasn't said a word since he woke up."

Pursing her lips, she rolled her eyes towards him. "So you haven't heard _his_ side of the incident?"

"I got a community breathing down my neck to explain how one of these was able to level part of our town and three families asking why their children are dead. _His _side isn't a high priority, right now."

She sighed and turned her attention to the file. The emblem on the top of the first report was the California state seal. It was from a police department in a small town, the name of which her eyes naturally bypassed for more interesting details. But she had only gone a few lines before a bell went off in her head.

"Beacon Hills?" she squawked and Warren started when she jerked her head up. "As in, _Beacon Hills_, California?"

"Uh...yeah?"

Emily turned and made for the table, all but slamming the file on the top as she began to rifle through the pages. Warren looked from her to the boy and back before he sauntered over. Emily's finger flew over the report, her tongue making a soft clicking sound while the words went flying by.

"'September...2011...'" she read at last. "'Upon following the directions provided by the two minors, officers were able to exhume the second half of the body first reported on August 31st, 2011. Officers obtained statements from both witnesses at the scene of the discovery. Officer Daniels spoke with the Sheriff Stilinski's son, Stiles...Officer Trenton interviewed...'"

Emily's hands settled on either side of the file as if to steady herself.

"Scott McCall," Warren finished without looking to the page. "Our suspect." His brow furrowed when he got no response. "Hansen, you want to clue me in here?"

Slowly, the agent straightened herself and returned to the window. Her eyes were glittery and excited. The slightest of grins broke across her mouth.

"I should congratulate you, Sheriff," she said, distantly. "You've managed to capture one of Hale's."

The heavy clunk of his boots rejoined her, stopping just behind her shoulder.

"And just what the hell is a Hale?"

* Whew!* What do you say? Intrigued? Perplexed? Thinking: What in the wide, wide world of sports is going on? Worth continuing? Let me know, please!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**: Teen Wolf and all associated characters do not belong to me.

A/N: Quick note here, guys, and then I'll erase it. Due to some major changes in the story plot and timeline...well, this is really late for starters...But the revamping has made the previous note about characters totally obsolete. The story now follows the canon end of Season 2 (with the exception of Jackson, who is still the Kanima). Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the next installment! ~ ST

Chapter 2

Supernaturally speaking, Emily found him to be...unimpressive. Over the course of her career, she had seen more than her fair share of the werewolf population. Enough to know that not all of them were talented in the art of disguise. Most could manage a decent enough mask to blend into a crowd, but individually, there were always tell-tale signs that what you were dealing with wasn't altogether human.

Whether it was in the slightly sharper features, or the unnatural gleam in the eyes, or even a certain robustness in the hair and cheeks (excluding most omegas, naturally). The hints were present for those who knew where to look.

Except in this boy.

In Scott McCall's case, Emily felt as if she could have walked into the nearest mall and have found dozens just like him. He was overdue for a haircut. He was built but not intimidating and, for his age, he certainly couldn't have been described as naive. There was a rebelliousness in the set of his jaw and eyes that had not yet blossomed into defiance. And as far as she could discern through the observation window, there was nothing to suggest they even had a werewolf in custody.

Emily entered the interrogation room with her briefcase leading the way. She paused, bombarded by the smell of stale fries and cheap burger grease. Apparently, that stained little bag had had enough time to permeated throughout the small space. Before she could move further, however, Warren's broad hand settled between her shoulder blades and gave her a none-too-gentle _nudge_. Emily stumbled and almost toppled with her case before she was able to catch herself.

Cheeks flushing, she spun around just in time to fall back another step as the steel door swung past her nose. It slammed shut with a deep clang and a low grind as the lock was slid slowly back into place.

She huffed in irritation, dropping her hand from her chest in attempt to regain her composure. She ran her fingers over her pulled back hair and tugged at the hem of her jacket, brushing at her pant legs for good measure.

So much for entering the environment with an air of authority.

She turned her attention towards the suspect.

Any doubts about his other nature evaporated. A familiar little jolt wound through the bottom of her stomach as their eyes met. Instinct or intuition, she had never really established what it was, but it was essential to her job. A warning, an awareness even, that she was immediately in a situation where she was at a disadvantage and in the presence of a being infinitely more dangerous than herself.

No matter how many chains were involved.

Mr. McCall had not only had his wrists handcuffed behind him, a short chain was also tied around his waist, pinning him to the back of the sturdy chair. The seat itself had been welded to the floor.

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she crossed to the table in silence. Her routine was back in play, allowing her subject to study and draw his own conclusions about her first. Her face remained neutral and she made sure every movement was executed with calm confidence. All the while, she knew that nothing would hide her flaws from him. He would catch the slight gathering of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and the faded scar that traced her lower lip. Even the few strands of gray that had managed to infiltrate her hairline, it would all be taken into consideration.

Mascara and hair-dye could only hide so much.

By the time she set her briefcase onto the table, the boy's scrutiny was finished. She was surprised, however, to find no judgment in his dark eyes. He didn't seem suspicious or belligerent. If anything, he appeared only mildly curious.

She smiled then. "Hello, Mr. McCall. My name is Emily Hansen. Do mind if I join you?"

He didn't answer which Emily took as an affirmative. Taking the fast food bag, she dumped it in a trash can near the observation window. She moved the brief case to its side and undid the latches, opening it with the top of the lid facing her suspect. Scott lifted his chin slightly as if trying to peer over it.

"I'm a representative of the Werewolf Integration Association," she continued, ignoring the fear that crept into his eyes at the name. "I'm here to investigate the murder of four young people and I'm hoping you can give me some insight on the incident."

He dropped his brow into a scowl.

Emily ran a finger across her lip as she sank into her own seat. Then she reached into her case and pulled out a small item. She reached across the table to set it before him.

It was a packet of wet wipes. The boy blinked in surprise and looked back to her.

"The police ran your fingerprints, Mr. McCall. We know who and what you are. So, really, sitting there in your own filth and blood seems rather silly, doesn't?" She gestured to the packet. "Please, feel free to clean yourself up."

He sat still for a long moment, a debate filtering from behind his eyes. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he slumped. He brought his wrists from behind the chair, a metallic _clink-clink_ filling the air as a few of the handcuffs' links broke beneath his strength. One of his shoulders popped when he rolled them forward. Emily smiled at the golden ring that appeared at the outer edges of his irises before being swallowed up again by dark brown.

The cuff about his wrist clattered against the tabletop when he reached for the wipes and he winced, nervously, his eyes shooting to hers.

Emily gave him a nod and an encouraging smile. "Go ahead."

His hand trembled a little as he pulled the pack to himself and broke into it. He freed a cloth and kept his eyes downward as he began to scrub his face. Crusted blood and flecks of soil gave way to healthy, tan skin. The flesh at the corner of his eye didn't even bear a fading scar when he smeared the mess away. He had cleared off half of his upper lip when he noticed that Emily was watching him with a small grin. He froze.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to stare. It's just...I have to admit that I'm a little star struck."

He frowned.

She laughed and pushed herself higher in her seat. "Please, Mr. McCall. As close as the WIA interacts with your portion of society, you must have known that some of us would become familiar with the rogue pack of Beacon Hills. Led by the infamous Derek Hale."

The cloth drew slowly away from his mouth.

"Infamous?"

His voice was low and husky from misuse and the smoke in the air.

"Yes, well, that is the professional opinion." Emily extracted a notebook and ran her hand over it. "The blood of the Hales is very old and very influential and the Association doesn't appreciate being undermined by a group of boys. Boys who not only refuse to register but also interfere with the progress between human and werewolf relations." He lifted his brow in surprise. "They've gone to great lengths to try and pass you all off as a type of urban legend. Personally, I'm glad to know you really do exist."

"Why?"

She sighed, tapping her nails off the notebook while she decided how much to divulge to him. "Someone has to clean up the good intentions of heroes, Mr. McCall. That is where my career began. I would go to sites of incidents between men and wolves, oversee reconstruction and restitution for property damage, and then interview any surviving witnesses." She gave a small laugh. "It's been quite a tale to hear over the past years."

His eyes grew distant. "Survivors," he said, quietly.

Emily's smile faded and she drew back. "Quite unlike those people last night, I suppose."

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Would you care to talk about the incident?"

"Not really."

She nodded, understanding. "It must have been hard, not being able to save them. You haven't had such a loss in all the years I've seen your fights. How are you handling this?"

"Fine."

"Really? Because I would have believed it would have hit you rather hard."

He swallowed and asked, thickly. "Why's that?"

"Because Derek's not the only one who lingered in people's minds, Mr. McCall."

She stood and reached into the case, withdrawing a stack of manila folders. Together they were three inches thick and all bound by a strained rubber band. Setting the mountain of paperwork down, she chuckled at the surprise on his face.

"This is your legacy, Scott. As close as I could document it anyway."

"That's...kind of scary," he muttered, leaning his elbows up on the table.

She shrugged. "Well, a girl needs a hobby on the weekend." She didn't see his eyes widen as she began to shuffled through the files. Each one was tossed in front of him while she rattled off memorized sections of each report.

"The O'Flannary Family, 2015. Quote, 'It was the boy with the dark eyes who stood over us while the others were all fighting.' The Mobile Incident, 2015. Quote again, 'He said he name was Scott and that he wouldn't leave my side that night. And he never did. Not once.' The Slayings in Lincoln, 2016. 'I ain't never seen a fellow fight so hard for people he didn' even know.' And that little girl from Denver who was held hostage? She told me, 'He kept talking to me when those other ones were stopping the bad man. He kissed me right on the nose to stop me crying.' I think you gained an admirer there, Mr. McCall."

He watched her, his expression becoming, if anything, more neutral. His eyes stayed on her, never wandering down to the growing pile in front of him.

That didn't deter Emily. "Oklahoma, South Dakota, Virginia, Texas, Illinois, Nevada, all leading up to the property dispute at the Menendez Farm eight months ago. They all say the same thing. The Hale leader came to deal out justice but it was a beta named Scott who put himself between the victims and the assaulters. You're a protector, Mr. McCall. A hero to so many of these people. You expect me to believe that these four dead have had no affect on you?"

The boy scowled a bit and then sighed, finally looking over the closed folders. His tongue traced the inside of his lower teeth before he spoke again.

"Did he live?"

Emily blinked, taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"Menendez. The husband. That alpha took a good chunk out of his leg before we were through. He live?"

She considered him for a long moment, the heels of her palms resting on the table between them. He kept his head lowered and his eyes averted, patiently waiting for the reply.

"No," Emily said at last. "Between the injuries he sustained that night and alpha's venom working through his blood, it turned out to be too much. He died early the following morning."

Scott took a steadying breath, his shoulders sagging in disappointment. "Well, the odds are always against bite victims aren't they?" he said softly. Bitterly.

Emily interlaced her fingers beneath her chin. "See? That's the spirit I'm talking about. It's not in you to pull back from someone else's suffering. Such an admirable quality for one your species."

He looked up, sharply, at her choice of words.

"I can't help but wonder who you lost in life to have such a drive. Not to mention such loyalty to an outlaw like Derek Hale."

The corners of his mouth tugged downward and he looked away.

"Was it having to leave your mother on her own?" She reached out to set a single sheet of paper on top of the pile.

It was a Suspect of Lycanthropy Report.

In 2016, the government had issued them throughout the country. They could be found in every court house, post office, and police station from the largest cities to the smallest backwater holes. A census, they called it, and an outlet for concerned parents and neighbors to notify authorities about "potential hazards" in their communities. Or to have them keep a lookout for missing persons and runaways after the werewolves were exposed two years prior.

Emily had never approved of the tactic. Essentially, it had been a way to gage the number of wolves the government had to contend with. Creating files on people, American citizens, without their knowledge or consent. It felt a little too "big brother" even for her. And they weren't able to track down many of the missing suspects anyhow. The reports had fallen out of circulation since then, but not before thousands of cases were reported.

Including this one.

A copy of Scott's senior picture had been clipped to the top of the report, blocking out most of the legal jargon, but leaving the loopy signature at the bottom in full view. She heard Scott's breath catch as he read it.

Melissa McCall.

The boy leaned over the table, staring desperately at the name of his mother.

"Eight years you've been gone," Emily said. "Surely, you might have managed a phone call in all that time?"

His eyes flicked up, looking to her from beneath his bangs. Then he sat back with a silent scoff. He turned his head towards the door and pressed his lips tightly together.

"Hmm, I thought not," the woman said gently. "You probably convinced yourself that it was for her own good. You were protecting her by leaving her, right?"

Scott's nose wrinkled in stubborn silence and he continued staring at the wall.

"Well, if it is not your mother, was it the loss of Mr. Stilinski?"

His head snapped back around, his eyes sharpening in an instant. "What?"

She hesitated. "You don't know?"

He shook his head and leaned forward. "Mr. Stilinski? The sheriff? What happened to him?"

"Uh..." Emily passed her hand over the folder. "Mr. McCall, if you were not aware, I don't believe this is an area we should be delving -"

"You brought it up," he said, his voice becoming a little more forceful. "What happened to Mr. Stilinski?"

"It..." she sighed and extended the file to him. "It wasn't the sheriff, Scott."

His face drew blank and when he reached for the report, the broken chain on his cuff was trembling. He brought it to himself and flipped open the top cover. The agent winced at the soft sound that slipped from him. The manila folder fell to the pile and Scott's elbows struck the table, his hands raking back through his dark curls.

"_Stiles_," he breathed between his teeth.

The death certificate stared back up at him.

A series of photos had snuck from beneath the paper, all of them displaying different angles of the end of a guard rail and the river beyond it. The metal had been twisted and ruined, a pair of black tire marks streaking the pavement up to it. And jutting out of the muddy current of the river, upside down, was the rear end of a blue Jeep. The rest of the vehicle was lost beneath the surface.

There was a recovery crew present in the pictures, but even in the frozen snapshots of time, it was clear that they were in no hurry. They were there to extract the car, not save a life.

Scott's shoulders quivered as he hunched over the report, his teeth chattering as he began to wheeze. Emily sat a little straighter when an ugly sound tore through his throat. Like he was somehow not getting enough air.

"Mr. McCall?"

He leaned forward, choking a little as he forced his lungs to exhale.

"Are you all right?"

The boy nodded, weakly. He took a few deep breaths, clenching his fists tightly. "Happens..." he said thickly. He blew out a sigh, wiping his hand across his mouth. His eyes were glistening with moisture. "W-when?"

She didn't need clarification. "About thirteen months ago."

"How?"

"He was coming home from work. Night shift. It was raining hard that night. The police speculate that he met a drunk driver on the curve and tried to swerve aside. Then he lost control of the vehicle trying to correct it."

He swore and scrubbed his hands over his face. "We left...he was supposed to be safe..."

"I am truly sorry," Emily said, reaching over to clasp his wrist. "I tought you knew."

"I didn't," he muttered, still staring at the Jeep. His face was still twisted with grief.

Emily sat still for a long moment, letting him process the information. When she sat back, she looked to the gray sky filtering through that high, narrow window.

"But you do know that you're not the only one grieving right now."

He looked up, his shoulders hitching when he sniffed.

"There are three other families suffering in this town, Mr. McCall."

Dark eyes rolled shut. He bent his head, moving his fingers from his hair to the back of his neck.

"I understand there is a sentiment out there that the affairs of werewolves should not be shared with the government. But last night, that business bled over into humanity's world. Please, help me explain to those families why their children had to die."

"We don't know."

The reply was empty, lifeless, but all the same, he had given it. Emily felt her heart lift as he studied the table as if he'd never seen something like it before. Behind his eyes, she suspected he was running back through the events he'd witnessed the night before.

"Two in Seattle...two in Spokane..." he whispered. "People being killed for no reason. We followed the trail, the scents, going east as fast as we could but..." He licked his lower lip. "They were already dead by the time we got here."

"All right," Emily said, scribbling fast and trying not to break this stride. "Do you know what time that was?"

"One. One-thirty." He nodded to himself. "When we got to town, the fire was already going. Pete - uh, t-two of us went to see if they could stop it. Derek and me tried to track the pack."

"So you actually interacted with the killer?"

"_Killers_," he corrected. "There were three of them."

"Can you describe them?"

"Uh, two guys and a lady." He frowned at little, closing his eyes. "She was blonde. Skinny. Too skinny, but strong. She tore into Derek pretty good when he tried talking to her. The guy I fought had a scar on his chin, right here." He ran his thumb along the left side of his own. "The others took the last guy, I didn't really get a look at him."

"And ages?"

"Older than me. Maybe like in their thirties?"

Emily's pen stilled and she glanced up. "All of them?"

"Yeah, why?"

She jotted down the note. "That's unusual. Packs, even small or new ones tend to have a difference in ages, don't they? An already established hierarchy, that sort of thing?"

He shrugged. "Not always."

"But like any family, surely there are elders in most packs?"

"Sure?" he said slowly, lifting one shoulder. "Depends, right?"

"Right," she nodded. "And, uh, how did you come to be in that playground all alone?"

Scott sniffed, rolling his neck and swiping his finger beneath his nostrils. He looked drained. "They took off. Derek went after one, I took after the other. When we got to the edge of town, I got hit from behind. I don't know, maybe the third guy followed us. I woke up here," he said, tilting his head about the room. Then he paused. "I don't even know if the guys are looking for me yet."

"Well, we can always keep an eye out for them, can't we?"

His eyes shot to hers, warily, and Emily gave him a wry smile. Shaking her head, she continued. "These strangers of yours, is there anything else you can remember about them? Any distinguishing features?"

"Yeah, the guy had a piercing. Here." Scott reached up and pinched the little divot of flesh at the front of his right ear.

A spark of alarm sprang down the woman's spine and she felt her breath catch. "The tragus?"

"I don't know. Is that what that is?" When she didn't reply, he frowned and posed a question of his own. "Why? Do you know this guy?"

"No," Emily said, stirring herself. "Of course not. It just..." she circled her note several times. "I...I only ask for," she rolled her hand, "verification reasons."

He blinked, doubtfully.

Emily wiped her thumb along the corner of her mouth. "Um, well, this...this is a start. We'll begin looking into your story immediately. For now, why don't we look into getting you some proper food?"

Her smile had suddenly become a bit too sincere and the boy straightened, confusion etched across his features. "That's it?"

"I will send your descriptions over to my office in Spokane and to the surrounding areas. If these three have moved on, we'll find them, I assure you. Especially if they are as prone to violence as they seem."

"And me?" he asked.

Emily swept her fingers back over her ears, despite the fact that not one hair had slipped out of place. "Unfortunately, I cannot release you until your story can be verified. Either though additional witnesses or the capture of these individuals. And since you are a viable witness for this case, we'll need to get you registered with the national database as well."

"Registered," he said softy.

"If you're worried about your pack, we could always try and get a hold of them. I think the WIA would be very interested in reuniting you with them.

Scott scowled and clenched his jaw. He looked away again.

"I thought as much," Emily said with a dry smile. "Don't fret, Mr. McCall, as long as these facts check out, I see no reason to pursue Hale and the others at the present. I will, however, be transporting you to the WIA's main facility in Wyoming come sunup."

His shoulders tensed. "What? Why?"

The woman leaned forward, folding her fingers over her notebook while she tilted her head. "I could always leave you to the mercies of High Peaks," she waved a hand towards the window above them. "Though, given the current climate of the town is geared towards hunting werewolves, I wouldn't feel too comfortable about it, would you?"

He followed the direction of her hand, his face full of doubt. A sigh slipped through his nose.

"Which would you prefer, Mr. McCall?"

* * *

The barred door of the prison cell rattled behind him and Scott turned just as it slammed into place. The cell itself was ancient, sporting cracked cement and a bathroom sink that looked to be straight out of a horror flick. The key was twisted into place by a thin deputy with eyes full of disdain and an upper brow slick with sweat.

Emily had seen the procession from interview room to the holding cells with her calm air. Now, as Scott stepped back up to the bars running between them, she gave him another long slow smile.

"You made the right choice, Mr. McCall. I'll see in the morning."

Scott set his forehead against the white painted steel and watched as the deputy and agent meandered back out of the area. The door opened (unveiling Sheriff Warren's booming voice raging about crossing a murder suspect over state lines) and slowly swung shut, leaving him and the empty cells around him in peace.

When he was sure they had continued on through the station, Scott's brow fell.

He pushed off from the bars and strode past the narrow bed and the terrifying sink. Planting his foot on top of the toilet seat cover, he hoisted himself up and then leaned over to the left. He worked his way over to the window, balancing on his toes so he could peer through the wire-meshed window.

Outside, the parking lot was dim in the oncoming evening. The trees beyond it were already lost in shadow. Gold seeped back into the young man's irises and the world before him melted into the sharper, maroon-tinted vision of his more feral nature. Beneath the canopy of that little grove, he watched every branch be outlined. The tree trunks and shrubs were pulled out of the darkness, along with the curve of a leather-clad shoulder and arm.

"Peter?" he said to the empty room.

The figure in the trees stirred. Moving to its left, it faced off with the police station. Violent red eyes gleamed in Scott's enhanced sight and the man standing outside tilted his head, sorting out Scott's voice from the rest of the noise in the building.

Licking his lip, Scott steadied himself on the cement ledge of the window.

"I did it," he said. "Tell Derek that I'm in."

Across the parking lot, Peter's teeth flashed with a smile.

* * *

* Oh. My. Word. I hope Scott still kind of sounds like himself. Maybe a little OOC, but hey, he's ten years older, seen a few more things. And he just found out his best friend died (right?). So, there's part two for you! Please, please, let me know what you think.

Teaser for next chapter: Derek, Peter, and Isaac shed some light on the incident in High Peaks...


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Teen Wolf and all associated characters do not belong to me.

A/N: Hey, guys. Well, I couldn't manage to get this up earlier in the week, but here it is for the weekend, whoo! Kind of a backstory chapter, explaining what's been going on up until this point. We'll return to tension and action more in the next bit.

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

There was ice on the wind.

It sat deep inside his sinus, promising the forest that it would have a layer of frost come morning. It also had a helping for him as well if he dared to linger there long enough. Winter was late in coming this year, but the northwest corner of the Rocky Mountains always seemed ready to tip a fresh load of snow across the landscape. He braced himself against the chill sweeping down the mountain while it sliced through his jeans and jacket. However, his gaze never broke away from the cluster of bright lights lying in the dark valley beneath him.

Derek Hale stood upon a large outcrop of rock he had found not far from one of the hiking trails. There was a sign along the main path, pinpointing the spot as a place of interest, but he had not bothered to read why. The rocks granted him a view of High Peaks and, for the moment, that was all he cared about.

Two of his already dwindled pack remained within the borders of that town. And while the forces of that tiny community may not appear to be such a threat, the fact remained that every town was enemy territory these days. Every town, every house, every pocket, actually, was a phone call away from the W.I.A. Each time they crossed into a community, they were running a risk of being caught.

Now, he had handed Scott right over to their hands, their laws, and their authority. Truthfully, in hindsight, he was already questioning the decision. Scott McCall might remain as the most reluctant member of his pack, but Derek had found that the trials they had endured in Beacon Hills coupled with exposure of their race had somehow brought about the old promise of brotherhood that he had made to the young beta back when they had first met.

Of everyone that had passed through his strange life, he was surprised how far up Scott ranked on his list of people he really trusted. It wasn't as if the list was extraordinarily long, either.

The fight against the alpha pack several years earlier had taken its toll on Derek Hale, bringing strife and strain to his relationships with his other teen recruits beyond what even he had anticipated. In all honesty, if it hadn't been for Scott and Stiles, there was little doubt that the entire pack would have been obliterated before they even had a chance to fight. He had found himself in debt to a werewolf who, by all reasoning, would have preferred to remain an omega rather than have any ties to Derek and his followers. The fight, however, had done wonders to bridge the gap between the alpha and the estranged beta of Beacon Hills and they came to an understanding of sorts.

Theirs was an unusual alliance, but an alliance all the same.

Then, when their world had been blown to hell and plastered all across the six o'clock news, Derek found himself in the middle of a hard decision. It was no longer just the hunters who haunted their steps. The discovery of werewolves had unleashed an army of media, politicians, and every would-be defender of virginal innocence into the wild. The forests were raided, private properties were invaded, and every hermit and wanderer was dragged out of the woodwork under suspicion of being a non-human. False arrests were rampant in the initial panic of 2014 as well as few incidents of men being shot for resisting their captors.

It was not long after the news of the raids reached them that Derek and Peter made the decision to bid farewell to their little town for a time. The news went well with the others. Erica and Boyd were eager to leave the place that had ostracized them for so long and Isaac really had no reason to stay, but they were all very much surprised when Scott showed up at the rendezvous spot.

No Stiles in tow, no explanation of his presence, he merely met Derek's eyes with his face red and flushed and his breath uneven like he had been crying. He waited as the others passed by him and, swiping his wrist beneath his nose; he had fallen into step at the back of the pack.

Whatever reason lay behind his decision to leave his mother and his babbling little buddy behind, he never said. Derek often thought that the boy may have believed he was sparing them the pain of watching him be captured or killed on his own. But neither he nor Scott ever broached the subject, so it was left untouched all these years.

Which was fine, really. Derek had long stopped trying to peg the boy's motives for his actions.

By late 2015, the politicians had debated the issue long enough, it seemed, and passed legislation that acknowledged the werewolf's parallel right to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness. Strict punishments were established for people attempting to take the law into their own hands by hunting the packs on their own and without cause. There were a great many arguments about how to go about blending the two populations again.

Many humans demanded that werewolf families were to have notices on their properties and front doors, declaring what they were. Some wanted to remove them to their own communities; others felt like prison was the only secure bet to keep them all in tow.

There was a discussion of a werewolf tax, naturally, which brought about a furious onslaught of opposition from both sides. Human rights activists got involved, filling the airways with undecipherable shouting matches and then, though no one was quite sure why, PETA began pumping out ads connecting the werewolves to their causes.

It was like the werewolves _hadn't_ managed to keep themselves unnoticed for the last few centuries. Derek wasn't alone in being insulted by all this nonsense, but what could they do? Their voices actually counted very little in the endless debates.

It was during all this chaos that the W.I.A. reared its head for the first time. Its representatives were calm and confident, becoming a source of reason and clarity out of the insanity. They offered the chance to house werewolves in their own communities where they could live just as free as anyone else. They spoke on behalf of the packs that wanted nothing to do with relocation and offered rehabilitation for the more violent cases. After their first campaign for support, they began their outreach to the minority group, extending a hand to any who would accept their aid.

To Derek's (and many others) disdain, they had a massive reaction. The year of persecution had been hard on the broken packs and the government's registration forms were filled out in droves. The response was greater than anyone on either side had expected and those who despised the notion of being under any government's thumb watched in silence as their freedom slipped a little further from their grasp.

Time, it seemed, was now on the side of the inevitable.

Some of the more brazen alphas had taken to the internet, starting video blogs that rebuked the administration and legislation, the government and even the president himself for interfering with their lives. But their indigence went unnoticed as the nation barreled forward with their new policies and facilities being constructed to house their registered lackeys.

To top off an already unstable situation, there was still a mad scramble for power happening among the free packs that remained in the wild. After the alpha pack had been disbanded (due to the incident in Beacon Hills), they had left a gaping hole at the top of the werewolf hierarchy. Whenever they weren't busy evading humans, the packs were trying to kill each other for the top rung of the lowest social ladder.

This was where Derek stepped in.

In their prime, the Hales had been the oldest and most influential pack in America, second only to the alphas at that time. They had been large enough to spread out over the country, standing watch over the secrecy of their kind. The name itself still held stock, even though those who belonged to it had been absent for over a decade. When Derek and Peter came onto the scene, people took wary notice.

Unfortunately, their lives became a constant state of hard travel and zero thanks. They moved from state to state, following reports of disputes brewing between men and wolves and working fast to diffuse the situations before anything got out of hand. The living conditions were often quite sketchy and there was never a guarantee of food.

Derek had known such life when he and Laura had started out on their own. Peter was no stranger to it himself, having been a courier of sorts for the family before the Argents had torched his life. The teenagers, however, had taken quite a disliking to their situation and, not for the first time, questions were raised against Derek's leadership.

By early 2018, Erica and Boyd had had enough. They made a fresh attempt to leave the pack and this time, they managed to pull it off. Derek let them go. He wasn't Peter, after all, he would not use his influence over his betas to force them to stay. Besides, this was hardly the life he had promised them so long ago. If they felt they had a better shot on their own, they deserved a chance at it.

Isaac stayed behind, as well as Scott, and that was something at least.

It wasn't long after the pair of them of them departed that the newest worry landed in Derek's lap.

There was no real way to keep in contact with the allies they had managed to forge in the past few years. Everyone was constantly on the move and none of them trusted cell phones, even ones that were supposedly secure. But as time went on, even their hit and miss communications were becoming less and less. Packs were dropping off the radar, not only from the government but from their own families as well. Homes were abandoned as well as territories that had been jealously guarded for generations.

Panic spread throughout their kind, erupting in violent outbursts against the humans who lived closest to them. The relationship between men and wolves grew more tenuous as the weeks went on and Derek felt that they were in a dead sprint trying to douse flames that threatened to bring the whole country down. All the same, he saw fear growing in the eyes of his peers and desperate questions demanded to be answered about the missing packs. Unfortunately, answers was what he was currently lacking.

Day by day, he found his thoughts turning more toward the W.I.A.

A good deal of contented silence emanated from the organization in these later years. Their policy was to remain open to the public and media, allowing tours and inspections whenever they were requested. They wanted a healthy, transparent relationship with the people they served and helped protect. In the end, Derek supposed they managed to hide in plain sight because their name was hardly in the news anymore. There was no scandal or cruelty to latch onto, so really, the reporters left it to its business.

But among the packs, rumor was at an all time high. Derek heard everything from hard labor to sadistic Nazi-type experiments, to mind control, psychological warfare, and physical alterations taking place behind the walls of the facilities. He didn't know how much credit actually lay behind these rumors, but there was no way to fully quell them either.

No news was heard from the actual wolves who lived there and there was no going in if you wanted to get out again as a free man.

Now they had this rogue trio that had gone on a killing spree. Derek and the others had been in Oregon when they heard the news of the murders in Seattle. They had been close enough to pick up the wolves' trail in Washington and follow it east, but just far enough away that they hadn't been able to stop them from killing again.

Derek could still hear the dismay in Scott's voice when they had found the bodies of those four kids the night before. Of all of them, Scott had always been the most -

Derek's eyes widened as the wind shifted yet again, no longer coming in from his left but from behind. It carried with it something far more potent than ice this time.

The alpha swung around, his eyes ignited into a fiery blaze. The forest lit up in a sheen of red, pulling details from the shadows. His hand lashed out, knocking aside the pale claws that came out of the night. He thrust his other arm forward, closing his fingers about his attacker's throat.

A short bout of snarls and warning growls erupted from the pair of them. In the night, the other's eyes gleamed just as red and wicked as his own. Fingers coiled about the stiff leather of his jacket and twisted into a fist. Derek was pushed back, his heels grinding ever closer to the edge of the boulders. The two men teetered on the brink for a moment, their strength braced against one another as gravity threatened to pull them both down the face of the mountain.

"Peter!" Derek bellowed, his voice deep and garbled by his shifting.

Just as sudden as he had initiated the attack, Peter grinned. Red melted from his irises, leaving his usual cold amusement in its wake. He drew back, moving to bring his nephew back to solid footing as well. He didn't get very far, however, as Derek had yet to relinquish his grip on the older man.

"Why do you do that?"

Peter's soft laugh was snatched away by the wind. "Someone has to keep you on alert, Derek. Besides," he added, reaching out to pat his nephew's cheek. "Who could pass up the chance to rattle your stoicism?"

Derek swiped his hand aside and Peter followed the momentum of the hit, turning his shoulder to his nephew in order to look out over the valley himself. He tugged his own coat straight and then folded his arms, ignoring the anger radiating off the other.

It was not often that someone could sneak up on Derek Hale. Unfortunately, Peter seemed to have an uncanny knack for it. But (aside from the initial incident outside the school) his uncle had never taken advantage of his skill. Derek had no illusions that it was love that stayed his uncle's hand. No, he figured that whatever long buried plot his blue eyed werewolf had in mind for the days when they no longer had to hide at least a part of it hinged on Derek's survival.

Which really wasn't an encouraging thought.

"Did you see him?" Derek asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"He couldn't be better," Peter said. He cast a sidelong look towards his nephew. "Our little beta has finally turned his back on us."

"Did he find out anything about the place they're taking him?"

Peter's smile faded a bit when his baited statement was ignored. "Wyoming. The woman is going to take him them come sunup."

Derek's gut gave an uneasy twist at the news. He swallowed, fully aware that his uncle still had an eye on him. The wind ruffled their coats and lashed their hair, groaning in the pines around them. At last, Derek dropped his head into a sharp nod.

"All right. Here we go." He cocked his head, letting out a breath as he faced his uncle. "Any luck finding the two who took off?"

"No. I followed their trail two miles out of town and then it turned south."

"South?"

"Hmm," Peter said with a slow nod. "Seems our courses are all converging that way, doesn't it?"

Derek lifted his shoulders against another gust. "It means nothing yet."

"Of course," Peter rocked back on his heels. "And what about our current guest? Has he said anything about their recent activities?"

Derek drew a breath, tension coiling down his spine at the mention of their captive. "No."

The other man shifted his weight, thoughtfully. "Really? With the fate of the free world at stake, you can't get one man to talk to you?"

"The free world?" Derek asked, dubiously.

"Well, certainly _our_ freedom," Peter mused, rolling his eyes to the moon now. "Not to mention Scott's very life should he be discovered prying into the government's business. Or perhaps you're not concerned at all about his welfare given the current climate of the situation -"

"Peter."

"Hmm?"

"You want to have a crack at this guy?"

Peter considered for a beat before his slow smile crept into place. "I really think I'd enjoy that."

There were times that Derek wondered why he kept his uncle alive as well.

Both werewolves turned their backs on High Peaks. They crossed over the hiking path and passed into the darkness beneath the trees. Derek broke into a run and he felt his uncle follow suit. Moonlight broke here and there, lighting the forest floor for them. They continued to rise along the mountain slope, passing further than trail or tourist sight led. Back and back into the woods they went, until they came to a molding cabin.

It was short and squat and overrun by creeping moss and spider webs. Golden light shone through the cracked glass of the front window. The rotting wood of the front porch creaked and moaned beneath their weight. Derek entered first, pushing the warped door inward as he called out for Isaac.

The young man was sitting to the left in the bare kitchen. He had raided a shelf in the living area and had several books stacked up on the tabletop. Most were about survival in the wild, and he seemed more interested in something to do rather than the actual tactics he might find inside. He stood, quickly, as the older two entered.

"Any change?" Derek asked.

Isaac shook his head. "I brought him some food a little while ago, but he hasn't touched it."

"Well, let's see what we can do about that," Peter said, brushing between them and heading towards the back bedroom.

The younger beta sent Derek a questioning look but only got an exasperated shrug in response.

Peter entered the bedroom to the sound to low mumbling and growling. He eased the door shut, quietly and turned around. Bound tight to the overturned bed frame was a large man with his legs splayed out in front of him. His teeth were exposed as he breath came in ragged pants. His eyes were glassy and fixed into the ever shifting gold of a beta, but there was no life behind them, no intelligence. A great swipe of crusted red ran down his face, the blood having run over his eyebrow and lid before continuing down his cheek. His clothing was stained and filthy and the room itself reeked with the smell of him.

He watched Peter cross the wooden floor and a darker growl rumbled through his chest.

Peter sank to his haunches, studying the broad face curiously for a moment before he tipped his head.

"Well, now," he said to the man. "What are we going to do with you?

* * *

*So...that's more exposition than I've ever put into a story before! I apologize, I usually like to keep things active or at least filled with dialogue, but I had ten years to cover in a short span...I hope you enjoyed Chapter 3! Hooray for Chapter 4 when we finally reach the facility itself! Whoo!

If you have questions, critiques, anything at all, don't hesitate to jot me a note because I'm a fan them, you know!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: Teen Wolf and all associated characters do not belong to me. This is just for fun!

A/N: I know...I promised we'd get to see the facility by this chapter, but Emily's backstory kind of walked away from me, so I decided to end it where it ends. The good news is that, as a result, I'm already about a third of the way through the next chapter! Hooray!

(Oh, one language warning for what lurks below.) Just in case!

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 4

The room was what could be expected from a standard roadside dive. A questionable full bed, a TV with three stations, and a rust ring in the toilet created a type of ambience of its own. The ensemble was completed with a mystery stain on the wall and an air-conditioning unit that was on it last leg.

It was an ambience that seemed to cater to traveling serial killers, but still...

And it was brown.

The color was everywhere. On the walls, in the bedspread, mixed into the trodden down carpet, and featured in the thirty-year-old artwork that still adorned the wall. The air was heavy with that peeling, yellowed smell of cigarettes despite the fact that she had requested a non-smoking room. But there was a shower and a vending machine down the hall.

Really, what more could a single girl ask for?

The morning after her interview with Scott McCall, Emily stood beneath a spluttering stream of water. She had buried the lever in the red in hopes of coaxing some more warmth from the nozzle and was mulling over the possibility that she could drain the hotel's water heater when she heard the ringtone of her phone in the other room.

Emily swore and raked the curtain aside. She snagged a threadbare towel from the rack above the toilet and fought to wrap it around herself with one hand while she fumbled with the doorknob with the other. Out she came, trailing sopping footprints and her dignity behind.

She rounded the end of the bed and caught her toe on the edge of the frame. Stumbling, she let out a hiss of pain and tried to hook her assaulted foot up behind her before she sat, heavily, upon the bed. Then, realizing where she had landed, she thought of just how little the towel actually covered and slid to her knees before the nightstand.

Dingy carpet beat out Dateline-Special-bed-sheets every day of the week.

She finally managed to unhook her phone from the charger and slid her finger across the screen.

"This is Emily," she answered through grit teeth.

"Em!"

Her head jerked away from the phone at the sheer volume of that one syllable.

"Hello, Jim."

James Cottrell had been an IT tech at the first WIA facility in West Virginia. He was some sort of technology prodigy who had been working to pay off his college loans before he went on to become the next Bill Gates, or so she had heard. She had only officially met him when their security system had been hacked, unveiling every identity of their residents to some ambitious slob with a laptop and too much time on his hands. Jim had been essential to not only tracking down the thief, but he had also rewritten ninety percent of the WIA's computer defenses in his spare time. Just for the hell of it.

After Emily had learned that, she had seen to it that he was plucked from the day to day drudgery of working on glitching office programs. Now he worked right under the Head of Security and was next in line for the job when the old man finally announced his retirement. Not a bad position to find oneself in the current economy.

"How's the Great Wild North treating you? Still got all your teeth?"

Emily rolled her eyes. He was a rail of a thirty-one year old and what he lacked in muscle mass, he made up in being a wise ass.

"It just took my little toe as a sacrifice."

"Sucks!" He barked out a laugh. "I mean, it doesn't suck as much as a getting a call at _midnight_ asking you to spend six unpaid hours at the office, but whatever."

She sat a little higher, still massaging her mangled toe. "How did it go? Did you find anything?"

"Well, I looked the tracer program over from top to bottom like you asked and I can confidently tell you that I have absolutely _nothing_ to report."

Her heart skipped. "What?"

"Nothing, Em. Nothing has been taken offline, nothing is coming in as a malfunction. We haven't had a werewolf discharged from any of the facilities in over two months, much less a pack of three."

Emily scowled at the wall, running a hand through her soaked hair. "That...that can't be right."

"I checked. Heck, I _triple_ checked. All the ID's are coming in strong and every one of them have been located inside their proper sites for the past week. No one's been sneaking out for a little murder and mayhem fun so far as I can tell."

"What about the ones who have been discharged before? Is it possible our guy checked out but kept the chip as a piercing?"

"No way," he scoffed. "Protocol. The first order of business in a discharge is to have the chip removed and deactivated. It was a big enough ruckus to get the piercings approved for us to keep track of everyone at the sites. Can you imagine if we let the design out for anyone to copy? The WIA'd have a Sentient Rights Violation shoved up their ass so fast..."

"Yeah, I understand," Emily said, sinking to her hip in disappointment.

"Besides," Jim continued, "After my second slight emotional breakdown and ninth cup of coffee, I ran a search on all the packs that we've registered in the past eight years. I'm not seeing any of them that have a match to all three of these descriptions. I'm telling you, girl, I got _nothing_ here."

He allowed a few seconds of silence to pass between them while Emily racked her brain for a way to explain this sudden lack of support for Scott's story.

"Do you want to hear a theory?"

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'm open to all options at the moment."

"I think your wolf is lying to you."

A bolt of tension slithered down her spine. "Jim -"

"Hey, now, I know how you get about these people, Em, and I think it's great they got an advocate like you, I really do. But come on, you've been in this business long enough to see that not all of them are really victims in these cases. Some of them just go bad."

"Not this one," she said firmly.

"Think about it!" She heard a faint squeal, as if he were sitting back in his seat. "You got a wolf, one wolf in a hundred miles of your crime scene, found covered in blood. Blood that doesn't belong to him, by the way. And your wolf has a history of being involved in murder cases over the past decade, am I wrong?"

She lifted a helpless hand, "No, but -"

"Case closed, I say! I'm telling you, if this guy has any idea how police investigation's work, he's gonna misdirect you for as long as he can until he walk away. Either through the front door or through a wall if he can manage it! You're mystery pack doesn't exist, girl."

Emily felt her jaw slide forward in annoyance and she counted to ten while he spoke. That didn't help anything. She was used to this type of opinion, naturally, she caught heat every day for her career choice. And Jim was a thousand miles away, he knew nothing of the Hale pack. He hadn't seen the look in Scott's eyes when the dead kids had been brought up. She was used to it.

But being used to something rarely made it enjoyable to endure.

"Just an outsider's perspective, you know," he said lightly, as if he'd done no more than comment on the weather.

"I appreciate it, Jim," she replied. "But I'm kind of looking for something a bit more substantial than opinion, you know?"

He sighed, heavily. "All right, I said my piece. Now, if you don't mind, I'm gonna sneak out of here and call in sick."

"Okay. Thanks for checking."

"You got it, Em. Keep your sanity out there."

She ended the call and sat there with disappointment pooling at the bottom of her stomach. Hauling herself up, she limped over to the small (brown) desk attached to the dresser. The collection of photocopied reports, snapshots of the victims and street where they had died, witness testimonies, and Scott's arrest report. The pile was topped off by a yellow legal pad filled with her own theories and observations and questions that had not yet been answered.

At the bottom of the last page were three rough hewn sketches of three torsos. Two men and one woman. Their clothes were dark and vague and each one had a heavy question mark scrawled over the top of their heads.

Their faces, however, remained empty.

Emily let out a frustrated sigh and leaned over the papers, glaring at the three drawings.

"Who _are_ you people?"

* * *

The Buick Encore she drove was actually a modified model that had been designed specifically for the retrieval and transport of werewolves. There was a plexiglass partitian that separated the front and back seats and the frame in the back and trunk area had been reinforced with additional steel bars. The cushion where her passenger would sit was wired with reels of electrified twine should things take an unfortunate turn during her trip. To date, Emily had never had to throw the little lever that was located just beneath the dimmer switch on her dashboard. Like many things, it was just another precaution in her unusual field of work.

She had doubts that she would have to use it on this trip as well.

When she had returned to the police station, she was surprised to find the street before it was crowded. Dozens of men and women were gathered before the little building, mingling amid one another and sending dark looks into the windows of the office. By the grim determination they all sported, she didn't have to wonder why they were there.

She only feared she had made a mistake by not taking Scott away the night before.

Cutting down one more street, she swiveled the wheel and pulled up to the station from behind. One of the deputies was smoking on the back porch and nervously flicking at the butt of his cigarette as he listened to the crowd's angry muttering from around the corner. He watched Emily trot up the steps with wide, wary eyes.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Agent Hanson. I'm here to..."

"You getting that thing outta here?" he asked, swallowing thickly.

She dropped her chin. "Yes."

"Good riddance," he muttered. Then he stepped forward and grabbed the door for her. "The boss is waiting for you."

Emily nodded her thanks and entered the cool interior of the station. She wound her way through the back utility room and strode out into the main office. The deputy was right. There stood Sheriff Warren with his small secretary. Both stood behind the front desk, facing off with the front door as if they expected the crowd to come surging in at any moment, pitchforks and torches and all.

"Sherriff?" Emily announced.

The secretary flinched at her voice and spun around, wide-eyed. Warren, however, just tipped his shoulders enough to glance at her before his countenance sagged in relief.

"'Bout damn time, Hanson," he grumbled, waving her to follow him towards the cell.

She fell into step behind him. "I thought you were angry I was taking your suspect," she said, idly.

"Don't think I'm over it," he said, looking back at her. He tipped his head. "But, I'd rather you get him out of here before the folks out there burn the rest of the town to the ground trying to get him out of here."

Emily let out a soft huff and fell silent as she continued to follow at his heel.

Scott rose in silence when they entered the small cell block. There was a faint hollowness beneath his eyes, suggesting he either hadn't slept a wink or had been listening to the growing discord outside the station walls since the first people had begun to arrive that morning.

Probably both.

Emily gave him a small smile as Warren went to work unlocking the cell. "Are you ready to go?"

The young werewolf nodded, eyeing the sheriff all the while.

He quietly allowed himself to be directed when Emily took his elbow and began to steer him through the station. They ducked along the edge of the walls, avoiding the front windows as much as possible. Warren walked on the other side of Scott, obscuring the younger man from view as he followed them out through the rear of the building.

The deputy still stood there, his cigarette burned down to the filter but still smoldering along the edges, and watched as they escorted the werewolf to the vehicle. Scott ducked his head and slid into the Encore's backseat. Emily closed the door firmly and checked that it was locked before she turned once more to the man.

"Thank you, Sheriff," she said, "for not turning him over to them."

Warren's blue eyes studied her for a long moment and then he looked to his deputy. "Tell me something, Hanson. Those files you showed him yesterday...You really believe everything that's in them?"

"I do," she replied slowly.

"So you really think that we got the wrong wolf?"

Emily hesitated. "I think we don't know everything that happened two nights ago, Sheriff. Until I know otherwise, I can't make any assumtions about him."

Warren slid his gaze to the young boy in the backseat. "We'll keep an eye out for the others."

Whether he meant Derek's pack or the mysterious three strangers, he didn't specify. Emily didn't think he would.

"I'll be back tomorrow to continue the investigation," she promised, opening the driver's door.

He turned away and walked back to the porch. "Come on, Kirk, don't just stand there. Help me diffuse the situation out front, will ya?"

No good bye. No well wishes. No final looks of warning to the suspect slipping out of his fingers. Just back to business. Emily felt the corner of her mouth twitch as she watched the large bear of a man disappear into his station house again, his little deputy trailing behind. Emily had known a lot of chauvinistic, irritating, gruff men in her life, but there was a special few who were skilled at hiding a good heart behind all that nonsense.

For a moment, she couldn't help but wonder if Warren wasn't one of them.

* * *

It was a six hour drive from the little Idaho town to the facility located near Casper, Wyoming. Which meant they had five long hours of scratchy radio stations and brief converstations about where they wanted to eat or how Scott was doing on the bathroom situation. He had busied himself for the first hour or so by looking over the backseat and fitting his fingers into the gashes left across the upholstry and the windows by previous passengers. Then, he sat with his head against a window and watched the scenery pass by.

Emily kept her focus forward on the road as she ran through her earlier conversation with Jim again and again. She thought of several scenarios where she might have ended the phone call as the winner and made the usual silent vow that should the subject be broached again, she would handle herself much better. All the same, she found her eyes drifting to the rearview mirror off and on, wondering if he didn't have some validity in his argument.

It was true that she didn't know anything about the boy in her backseat. No more than most people knew their favorite celebrity anyway. But this was different. She wasn't basing her opinion of the young man on a character he played on T.V. or an interview with a late-night talk show. She hadn't formed some sort idealistic pedastal to set him on, had she?

The fights they had endured. They people they had protected. That was all real. She had seen the truth of it in the eyes of the those who had witnessed their actions. It couldn't be a ruse, could it? Who would go through all the trouble of saving human life after human life only to go rogue and start a killing spree?

Some werewolves went bad, yes, she knew that.

She also knew that Scott McCall wasn't one of them.

When she could no longer bear the silence, Emily reached back and undid the latch to the small window in the plexiglass shield. Scott's head lifted from the window.

"We're getting close," she announced. "You nervous?"

Scott pushed himself up and scooted to the middle of the seat so he could speak through the hole. "Should I be?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "But with it being a new community and a new enviornment, some people do get a case of the jitters. It's kind of like the first day at a new school, isn't it?"

He didn't looked thrilled at the comparison.

Emily wrinkled her nose. "I hated high school, too," she said. In the mirror, he lifted his eyes to hers. "Actually, the facility is more like a gated community than anything else. There's a diner, a dentist, even a learning center if you're interested in pursuing college. The WIA has put a lot of effort into making life as accessible as possible for their residents." She looked back to the road, reeling off the perks she knew by heart. "There are summer camps for kids, vacation packages if you want to get away from it all, a job market of sorts depending on your strengths, and all of it is available without the fear of persecution or prejudice."

"Even if you're wanted for murder?"

Her smile faded and she glanced up to the somber face.

"You're a person of interest, Scott, nothing more." But she dipped her head, thoughtfully. "Yes, you will have to have a daily check-in with the on-site manager, but those are very brief. You'll like Doug, too. Sweet little guy, loves his job and his residents. He's been in this field way longer than I have." She grinned at him. "I can't see him incarerating you if you keep to the schedule."

Scott was quiet again for a moment. Then he braced his arm against the plexiglass and lowered himself to rest his chin on it. "Can I ask you something?"

Emily tilted the mirror to keep him in view. "Shoot."

"Why do you do this?"

She was surprised by the forwardness of the question. But she studied his face and, again, found no malice in his eyes. Simple curiousity had fueled the question.

Emily pressed her lips together and looked out to the surrounding plains. The road they were following was flanked by the skeletal remains of abandoned oil rigs. The ninety foot derricks rose mournful and black against the gray sky. After Congress had pushed the Preservation of Natural Soils Act a few years ago, the oil companies hadn't even had the chance to reclaim their equipment from the pre-selected lands where the Act had taken effect. The men who had been working there had been told to drop what they were doing and leave; their final checks would be in the mail, thank-you.

Now these tall black frames littered the Wyoming landscape like still and forgotten ghosts.

What different world it was from the one she had grown up in.

"Ma'am?"

"Do you remember the first reports of the American Werewolf, Scott?"

He frowned. "Not really. I, uh, kinda had a lot on my plate at the time."

"Well, I do," she said. "It began with an omega named Mitchell Rice down in Georgia. His pack had been wiped out by a network of hunters that had been operating in secret for centuries. You ever hear of the Argents? I thought a branch of the family was located out in California for a while."

Scott's dark eyes held hers for a moment before he shook his head. "Only in passing," he said in a tight voice.

Emily wondered.

"Mitchell was the sole survivor in one of their raids. Now we assume that he had somehow gotten poisoned in his escape. By the time he had stumbled his way into the nearest town, he was all but insane as it ate through his mind. He started shouting for help in the middle of a crowded street and then attacked a man who tried to approach him. The cops showed up after he made a grab for a little boy and they arrested him, thinking he coming off a bad trip, you know?

"Anyway, it took a lot to apprehend him and hold him overnight. By the end of it, he wound up shifting in the cell block in front of the other prisoners and a few guards. He had been isolated, so no one got hurt, but one of the guards caught the transformation and his beta form on camera. Once the footage was authenticated, every media outlet descended on that town. Everyone wanted to sneak a peek of the first werewolf in history to be captured."

Emily paused as the old indignancy welled up beneath her lungs. She thought of the battered old man whose face had dominated the newstands and television broadcasts for nearly a month after the video had gone viral.

"It was terrible. He was dying and they treated him like a circus freak. We didn't know anything about werewolf anatomy then. The doctors they brought in to save him pumped him full of everything they could think of. His body rejected it all but...they did manage to extend his life a few weeks." She frowned to herself. "Maybe it's better that way. At least he didn't get to see what he had done to his people. Because where there's one..." Her voice trailed off and looked back to the boy. He watched her with unbroken focus although she was sure he wasn't hearing anything he didn't already know.

"Mitchell Rice was only the prologue to the 2014 hunts."

The corner of Scott's mouth twitched. "Yeah. _Those_ I remember."

"The reporters were quick to jump on the incidents in the southern and central states. Places where they were already fighting for stricter gun laws." Emily gave a mirthless laugh. "Politics first and foremost, right?" Scott's gaze flicked from the mirror to the back of her head at the bitterness of the statement. "But the real carnage took place in the cities. Werewolf paranoia went rampant. Old vendettas were settled by one person accusing the other of being a werewolf and executing a little vigilante justice. The gangs turned on each other more viciously. Vagrants and wanderers were beaten bloody for daring to cross into certain neighborhoods.

"At the colleges, well, at least the college I attended at the time, the student body became a veritable breeding ground of malcontent, protests, and anti-werewolf demonstrations. The future of American law and order became a frothing beast of its own, ready to take down the monsters who might dare dwell among us."

Scott tipped his head. "You're a cop?"

Emily smiled, wistfully. "No. I had dreams of being a prosecutor one day. Someone who saw to it that justice was always served. Be a voice to those who could no longer speak for themselves. Help victim's families see their villains behind bars. An enforcer of the law I loved."

"So how did that turn into being a chauffer for murder suspects?"

"Retrieval agent," she corrected, mildly, "for a person of interest."

But her smile was not long lived.

"There was a boy in several of my classes. Ethan Venet. He was a nice kid. Wanted to be a criminologist. He kept to himself mostly, very quiet but not in a way that made him creepy. It was more like...like he just wasn't sure what to do with the rest of us. I always thought he was shy; I never assumed he would have anything to hide..."

She clicked her nails off the steering wheel. "The week after Mitchell Rice was reported dead, this really shady guy turned up, looking for Ethan. He found him, eventually, and had a long conversation with him out back of the dorms. Someone overheard them talking about getting out of town and laying low for a while...Ethan could start school again...along those lines. That's when word spread. The shady guy was Ethan's cousin, trying to get him to pull out of class and go on the run. We had a werewolf on campus."

They reached a turn-off with a small white sign directing them to take a right. Emily made the turn, using the break to take several deep breaths. She could feel the old, threatening heat pricking at the back of her eyes and blinked the sensation back. She hoped she managed to keep her voice normal for the rest.

"One of the fraternities, Ti Pheta Delta or whatever, jumped him outside his dorm the next night. Stuffed him in a trunk and hauled him out to one of their family properties. A secluded place with lots of trees and not much else. Not one of those bastards stopped to notice that he never shifted during the trip. He never tried to tear them to shreds like they thought he would. They never stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, he _didn't_ get the family genes. All they cared about was that one of them had heard that fire could..."

She had to stop as a painful ache filled her jaw. She drew a breath and wiped at her mouth in futile silence while the heat continued to grow and the edge of her vision became blurred.

Scott watched her in the mirror, his face slack with understanding. He closed his eyes and lowered his head for a few minutes while Emily blew out a calming sigh. He didn't speak again until her heart had slowed back to its usual pace.

"Were you two...?" Emily glanced up at him, sharply, as he shrugged. "You know..."

She sniffed. "Would his death be more meaningless if we were?"

He flinched at that and dropped his gaze again, but not before she spotted the grief that had filled his face.

Emily softened her tone. "No, Scott. We weren't a thing. He was just a quiet boy I saw in class. But I took his death hard. The school and police chalked it all up to a hazing gone bad. Accidental death. No details given but what one of those..._idiots_ had bragged about before the lawyers shut him up.

"Ethan's family showed up long enough to claim his remains and belongings and then they vanished again. I can't say as I blame them, but...Those boys got away with murder, Scott, because of the political climate of the nation. An unspoken law was passed through the student body and facility to never speak of him or acknowledge his empty desk again. Can't have such an upstanding school's name tarnished by the fact that they not only let a link to the werewolf community into their enrollment, but also allowed him to die at the hands of his peers..."

She scoffed again. "If that's what my mentors and advisors considered upholding the law, then I realized that I wanted no part of it. I changed my major, moved to a different school, and set to work trying to find a way that no one else would share Ethan's fate. I joined the WIA soon after graduation and have been assessing and transferring werewolves ever since."

Scott tipped his head, thoughtfully, and pushed away from the barrier. To Emily, it seemed like the air around him had suddenly changed. Like he had relaxed somewhat during the story. She couldn't help but think that whatever silent test he had issued to her during their interview had just been passed.

Emily frowned and returned her attention to the road. A gray smudge had appeared on the horizon.

"There it is," she said.

* * *

A/N: The facility is next. I promise this time! No, really, it's true!


End file.
